


of things despaired of

by cherryfeather



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos and Aramis bicker constantly even in life or death circumstances, Love Confessions, M/M, Peril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:43:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1843066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryfeather/pseuds/cherryfeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Aramis," Athos says, and his voice is strangely even. Aramis looks down at him, hanging by Aramis' arm and one hand on fragile, crumbling stone, and no one should look as calm as Athos does under these circumstances. He's put his defenses back up, his face careful and guarded, and Aramis knows he's going to hate whatever's about to come out of Athos' mouth. "Aramis, let go."</p><p>Well. He was right about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of things despaired of

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little snippet of a thing I had a burning desire to write weeks ago and then forgot to post. I realized I hadn't done anything from Aramis' point of view, and I just really wanted someone to fall off a cliff. 
> 
> Title from the Novena to St. Jude--the saint on Porthos' medallion, also known as the patron saint of lost causes.

Aramis whips his sword from his opponent's collapsing body and whirls, looking for another. Most of the outlaws who'd ambushed them are on the run, though--he sees Porthos and d'Artagnan chasing down a group of them, and he nods approvingly and looks for Athos.

He sees him, and his blood runs cold. 

Athos duels two of the brigands, their combined offense pushing him back along the cliff face, closer to the edge. Aramis reaches for his pistol, finds nothing, swears, and starts to run. This is, he thinks, the very _last time_ they ever take a shortcut. Even if the high road back to Paris, along the sharp cliff beside the river, had been the better idea, he knows he should have realized that if the four of them presented an opportunity for things to go wrong, they would.

Athos knocks one man's sword aside and smashes him in the face with the guard of his rapier. The one goes down, hard, and doesn't move, leaving Athos free to focus on the second, who's fighting dirty. Athos has had years of his life to learn from Porthos, though, and when the outlaw aims a kick at his groin, Athos leaps to the side and grabs the man's leg in his free hand. He jerks hard, twisting, and the man screams as he falls. 

He hits the edge of the cliff and nearly goes over, and Athos loses his footing as the man flails with the sword still in his hand. The outlaw scrambles for a handhold and gets a hand on Athos' boot, dragging Athos back with him. There's an ominous cracking sound, and the edge of the cliff face lurches under Athos' feet. 

Aramis scrambles up the hillside. He's nearly there, and he yells to him, he has to let him know he's coming-- "Athos!" 

It can't happen--not again, not another brother, not _Athos,_ and he's praying in every language he knows-- 

Athos looks up, his wide eyes finding Aramis, and for the first time since they've known each other, Athos' face is totally unguarded--scared, like Aramis has never seen him look. Athos' lips move-- 

_don't_ \--

The cliff crumbles, and Athos and the outlaw fall.

An inhuman scream wrenches itself from Aramis' throat. 

Aramis throws himself the next two feet up the hill, barely breathing as he pulls himself to the edge--he doesn't believe it, he _won't_ believe it--

There's only one broken body on the river rocks below. Athos clings to the cliff face a few feet down, barely holding on as he tries to get his feet under him.

Aramis pushes himself to the edge and throws a hand over. "Athos, here!"

Athos looks wildly up, and he lets go of the cliff with one hand, straining up to reach Aramis. Their fingers touch, grasping madly, but they don't connect--Athos nearly falls, grabbing the cliff face again, and Aramis swallows down another animal sound of fear. He pushes himself farther over the edge, reaching as far as he can. "Athos, come on--"

Their hands connect on the second try, and Aramis can breathe again. 

Then the rock Athos still holds cracks and gives way, and Athos' whole weight drags on Aramis' arm for one terrifying second, pulling his body forward. Athos grabs madly for another handhold, taking some of his weight back, but the damage is done--Aramis can't pull him back up, he's overbalanced. He can just hold on.

He'll fall too, if Athos does. 

Aramis swallows hard, and prays silently that he's strong enough to hold on. "I've got you."

Athos doesn't answer, looking down, and when he looks up, Aramis can see the misgivings in his eyes, watches him read the fractures and weaknesses in the cliff face with a glance. "Not for long."

"We don't need long," Aramis lies, and turns as much as he can. He draws a deep breath bellows _"Porthos!"_ at the top of his lungs--he and d'Artagnan can't have got far--they'll be here, they'll pull him up.

"Aramis," Athos says, and his voice is strangely even. Aramis looks down at him, hanging by Aramis' arm and one hand on fragile, crumbling stone, and no one should look as calm as Athos does under these circumstances. He's put his defenses back up, his face careful and guarded, and Aramis knows he's going to hate whatever's about to come out of Athos' mouth. "Aramis, let go."

Well. He was right about that.

"No," Aramis says. It's unthinkable. "Have you lost your mind? No."

"Aramis, you'll fall, too." As if in agreement, the cliff gives another worrying crack, and Aramis feels his body tilt slightly forward. Athos slips an inch or so down the wall, and he gives Aramis such a familiar exasperated look that Aramis could cry. "Aramis, _let me go."_

"No." It's the only word he can say. How can Athos seriously expect him to do that? Just open his hand and watch Athos fall? 

"So we'll both plunge to our deaths instead?" Athos digs the toes of his boots into the cliff face, trying to get a foothold. "I'm sure Porthos will appreciate that."

"Shut up," Aramis snaps. This is so typical of him. "Athos, _shut up,_ I'm not letting go."

Athos opens his mouth to argue, then there's another clatter of gravel and Aramis twists his head to see. The outlaw Athos had knocked out earlier is regaining his senses, getting up onto his hand and knees.

Aramis swears, digging his feet in as much as he can, and leans back, trying futilely to pull Athos up. Athos tries to help, but the brittle rock doesn't want to hold his weight, and every handhold or foothold he tries to make breaks away. "Aramis, your sword--"

"Don't have it," Aramis pants. "Dropped it when you _fell off a fucking cliff._ Where's yours?"

"Dropped it when I fell off a fucking cliff." Athos twists, his fingers tightening in Aramis' as he tries to help. He looks up, and he's worried, his face tight with exertion--then his eyes focus over Aramis' shoulder and all emotion slides off his face. "Let go."

"No."

"Let go, now!"

_"No!"_

Aramis hears a step behind him, and his mind puts it together with Athos' sudden stark expression--outlaw, on his feet, sword in hand, standing over Aramis--

Athos drops the wall with one hand and reaches down for the loaded pistol still in his belt. "Aramis--!"

Aramis' body moves instinctively. He grabs onto Athos' other wrist with both hands, holding on as tight as he can, and closes his eyes when he sees Athos pull the trigger.

The recoil pushes Athos backward, dragging Aramis farther over the edge, and he's barely balancing, leaning back as hard as he can. A half-second later, the dead outlaw falls past him over the cliff, narrowly missing Athos. 

Aramis cannot _believe_ that worked.

Athos flails for the cliff face, doesn't find a handhold, and drops his pistol, reaching up for Aramis' other wrist and holding on. 

He's just hanging there now, Aramis' arms the only thing keeping him from falling, and when Athos looks up, his face is stained with powder. He looks different under the fine coating of dirt--younger, more vulnerable. "Aramis?"

"Good shot," Aramis pants. His shoulders are burning with the strain, but he doesn't _care,_ he'll hold Athos here until Judgment Day if he has to. 

"Aramis, _please."_

He's never heard Athos say _please_ like that before--like he means it, more than anything. Aramis shakes his head, nearly laughs, and tries not to cry. "It's not going to work, Athos."

Athos lets out a sound of irritation, and it's so familiar--Athos could be scolding him for losing focus in the training yard, instead of looking up at Aramis and hanging from his hands above a rushing river with very sharp rocks. "What good will it possibly serve if we both fall?"

Aramis' eyes sting with sweat and dirt and gunpowder, but not, _not_ tears. "Would you drop d'Artagnan?" he asks quietly. Athos' face goes very still, and Aramis presses it. "Or Porthos? Or me? Would you drop me, Athos, if I were the one hanging there and telling you to let go?"

One corner of Athos' mouth tugs up slightly. "Depends on how much you've irritated me in the past week."

Aramis lets out a sick, broken imitation of a laugh. "Oh, thank you."

Athos smiles up at him, his sad, heavy eyes full with some kind of emotion Aramis doesn't want to name. If he names it--if he's wrong, or if he's right, it'll break his heart, either way. "I wouldn't drop you, Aramis," Athos confesses, and Aramis feels warm for just a second before Athos ruins it. "You're worth so much more than I am."

"No." Aramis' voice cracks in his throat. "You don't get to say that, here, now." All the frustration and affection and care that Athos summons in him floods his chest, scalding emotion burning in his veins and lungs. "I am holding your life in my hands, Athos, and I'm not going to let you demean it like that."

Athos closes his eyes, shaking his head, and Aramis would slap him if he wouldn't have to drop him to do so. "I don't deserve you," he says softly, almost to himself.

"Everyone deserves to be loved."

The words slip out before he can stop them. Athos looks sharply up at him, his eyes wide and blindingly blue, and for a long moment they just stare at each other.

Aramis laughs and shakes his head. "There," he says, and he's crying in earnest now, tears burning his eyes as he tries to keep Athos' face in focus. "There, now I've said it, and you can't ask someone who loves you to drop you and watch you fall to your death, Athos. You _can't."_

"Aramis." Athos stares up at him, and as much as Aramis' heart is racing triple-time in stress and panic, he can't regret his confession if it's put that look of fear and hope on Athos' face. _"Why?"_

It breaks his heart, that _that_ would be the first question Athos has to ask, but it's so perfectly _Athos._ Aramis smiles through his tears, looking down at him. "I can give you a list," he half-laughs. "Would you like it alphabetically, or by orders of magnitude?"

Athos chokes out an approximation of a laugh, and Aramis loves him more than ever, hearing that wry, desperate little sound. Athos' eyes are too bright in the sunlight, and Aramis tries to fix this picture in his mind, Athos' face looking up at him, dirt-stained with shining eyes, eyes that maybe reflect just a little bit of the agonizing love Aramis feels for him.

The cliff shifts under his chest, Athos' fingers slip slightly in his, and Aramis' heart spikes with pure fear. "Athos, hold on to me."

"I'm trying." Athos tightens his left hand and shifts the sliding grip of his right, then does the same with the other hand. "Aramis," he says again, and looks up. "It's going to break."

"Damn it, I _know."_ A fresh wave of tears stings his eyes. "I know, and I'm not letting go."

Athos' gloved fingers slip in Aramis' again, gritty powder and sweat making their grip impossible to maintain, and Athos looks up at him, his eyes desperate. Aramis feels a terrible, awful sensation of time slipping away. They were supposed to have more time. How can this be happening, right now? 

The cliff cracks again, and Aramis has to lean back to keep his balance, Athos' weight dragging on his shoulders. His arms are almost numb, his muscles burning, but he can't let go, he _can't._

Athos' fingers loosen slightly in his, and Aramis realizes what he's doing in a heartbeat. His throat closes in panic--panic, and sudden blind fury. "Athos, don't you _dare_ let go, don't you even _think_ about it--"

"How can I let you fall, too?" Athos snaps. "How can you ask that to be my last action, to let one of the only people I care about in this world die pointlessly, for my sake?" 

Aramis' chest spasms with a sob, and he shakes his head--it's all he can do, just a pointless _no,_ _no_ to everything about this nightmare. _God, please, please don't do this, don't take him from me, it's too soon, you can't--_

Athos' face fills with an impossible kind of tenderness, and Aramis feels a traitorous twist of _thanks_ \--he's gotten to see that look on Athos' face, at last. Why does it have to be now? 

"Aramis," he says, and Aramis knows that tone of voice. It's a goodbye.

_Please, God, no._

"Athos, _please."_ His voice breaks, and he stares down at Athos. His entire world is narrowed to Athos' face, Athos' weight hanging from his fingertips. "Athos, don't do this to me."

Athos just looks up at him, his face a stormy mess of resignation and fear and awful, painful affection. "Aramis, if you love me, let me save you."

"This isn't saving me." Aramis can't look away from Athos' eyes. "This is damning me."

And for the first time, Athos' voice breaks. "I suppose love is like that."

They stare at each other, neither knowing what else to say that isn't already rushing through their eyes.

The ground splits under him, and Aramis slides forward a few inches. Athos looks desperately down, then back up at him, his eyes begging. "Aramis, _let me go!"_

He feels frozen, paralyzed, everything in his body numb and shaking and overwhelmed with fear and love and everything in between--

_"Aramis!"_

It isn't Athos' voice, and Aramis' whole world has been nothing but Athos for long enough that Aramis doesn't understand, at first. 

Then he realizes--it's Porthos.

Aramis gasps out a laugh, and Athos closes his eyes, shuddering. Aramis twists to look over his shoulder, and he sees Porthos and d'Artagnan scrambling up the ridge. "Carefully," he calls, barely able to breathe around the surge of pure, unadulterated relief. "The cliff's not stable."

D'Artagnan, because he's d'Artagnan, barely even slows. It's Porthos who stops, who grabs the back of d'Artagnan's collar and jerks him to a halt. Porthos looks up at Aramis, and in that one look is a world of care and concern. "Have you got him?" he asks, his rough voice heavy with fear.

"Yes, but for God's sake, _hurry."_

Athos lets out a shaky sound that might be a laugh in anyone else, and Aramis looks down at him again. Athos looks up, his characteristic wry look on his face, and he opens his mouth to say something.

And then the _fucking_ cliff breaks.

Aramis feels his body pitch forward, hears Porthos and d'Artagnan yell, and sees Athos' eyes widen. He has half a second to think, less than that to act, and half _that_ to factor in Athos' self-sacrificing inclinations. 

He shifts his left hand to Athos' wrist, so the man _cannot let go,_ and swings his right arm back, as far as he can, reaching for what's left of the cliff face.

He finds Porthos' hand.

 _Even better,_ he thinks. 

Then agony fiercer than any pain he's ever felt lances through his shoulder, and he nearly blacks out. His and Athos' combined weight dragging down, the sharp jerk of Porthos catching them and stopping their fall--he'll realize, when his senses come back, that he's dislocated his shoulder. 

In the moment, everything turns to a haze of indistinct pain, gray-washed and red-tinged, and all Aramis knows is that he _cannot let go._ Not of Porthos and not of Athos, and he can dimly hear them both yelling at him in concern. Aramis can't process it. The pain's taking up too much of his thoughts--he can use what's left to hold onto them both, or listen to what they're saying. He knows which he'd prefer.

He hangs there, suspended between earth and sky, and thanks God, in his heart, for Porthos' strength and Athos' love. He doesn't seem to be made of anything himself, at the moment--just pain and strained muscle spread between them, still resonating softly with the aftershocks of fear and grief and love so intense he could have died for it. 

So he thanks God for them, and for the pain of being alive, and for making his body strong enough to bear it.

The next thing he knows, there's soft ground under his knees and two heavy bodies on either side, pressing close. Athos' weight has eased on his arm, but he can still feel him, his wrist solid in Aramis' grip, and Porthos hasn't let go of his hand. Aramis doesn't have to open his eyes to know it's the two of them beside him. 

"Hold him," he hears d'Artagnan say, and there's another touch on his body.

The wrenching jolt of his shoulder getting shoved back into place makes him cry out again, but the gray haze of pain begins to recede to something manageable. He leans into Porthos, because Porthos is his rock, and drags Athos closer by the wrist he still holds. He may never relinquish it.

To his surprise, Athos falls against him and buries his face in Aramis' neck. Aramis turns his face into Athos' hair and kisses it. Athos' fingers slip into his, then, the pressure the only thing his numb fingers can feel, and he feels Athos' breath, unsteady and warm, on his skin.

Aramis kisses his hair again, a lump rising in his throat, and his stiff fingers squeeze Athos' as best as he can. "Never," he says softly, just so he can hear. "I will never let you fall alone, Athos."

Athos lifts his head, just enough so they can see each other, and his face is streaked with gunpowder and dirt and sweat, and his eyes are blue and shining. He doesn't say anything. He only nods, once, the barest hint of movement, and leans into Aramis again. 

Porthos puts his arms around the both of them, and Aramis can feel Porthos' heart racing still. "Don't _ever,"_ Porthos says, "do that to me again."

Athos laughs, a broken and slightly hysterical sound, and it's the first time Aramis has ever heard him do so.

He would thank God for that, too, but Porthos has complained more than once about God getting all the credit, so in the silence of his heart, he is just deeply, impossibly grateful.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, my flail can be found on [le tumbleblag](http://tehriz.tumblr.com).


End file.
